THE FIFTH MAN
DR. HAYDEN threw aside the magazine he had been reading and, making
himself more comfortable on the big lounge, puffed contentedly at his
cigar as he looked over to where Jim Palmer and Peter Burnham sat
playing chess.
“Haven’t you people finished the game yet?” he asked, yawning openly.
His question met with no response from the absorbed players, and
curling up on the lounge the tired physician burrowed his head among
the sofa cushions and dropped off to sleep. An hour later Siki,
Palmer’s Japanese servant, looked inside the room which served Hayden
and Palmer, who shared the bachelor apartment, as living room and
dining room, and seeing the two men still deep in their game, he
withdrew as noiselessly as he had come. He had barely reached the
butler’s pantry when the gong on the front door went off with a
resounding din. Gliding down the hallway Siki opened the door and
admitted Dan Maynard.
“Mr. Palmer is expecting me,” he said, handing his hat and cane to the
servant, and stepped across the reception hall. But before he reached
the living room the Japanese had gained the doorway.
“The Honorable Mr. Maynard,” he announced and withdrew.
Palmer looked up from the chess table and waved his hand.
“Sit down, Maynard, the game will be over in a minute.”
Burnham, who had not glanced up, moved a rook across the board. “It’s
over now; mate in three, Jim,” he announced, and threw himself back
in his chair and passed his hand across his hot forehead. “Want your
revenge now, Maynard? I can play another game.”
“No, my revenge will keep,” laughed Maynard. “You look used up,
Burnham; too much concentration is bad for you.”
Burnham yawned in answer and Palmer, rising, lounged over to where Dr.
Hayden lay comfortably sleeping, snoring lustily.
“Wake up,” he exclaimed and enforced his remark with a vigorous shake.
“Maynard’s come and Siki has some refreshments ready for us.” His words
were borne out by the entrance of the Japanese with a tray laden with
sandwiches and a cellarette. Siki vanished, to return a minute later
with a chafing-dish containing lobster à la Newburg which he placed on
a table set for four places.
Dr. Hayden sat up and rubbed his sleepy eyes. Catching sight of Maynard
he bowed cordially as he joined the others about the table.
“Good cook, Siki,” he remarked a little later after sampling the hot
lobster. “You are lucky to have so excellent a servant, Palmer.”
Palmer made a wry face. “I won’t have him long,” he grumbled. “He gave
notice to-day; these rich newcomers are playing hob with the domestic
service in Washington.” He paused and glanced significantly at Burnham.
“Don’t be so niggardly with the decanter; pass it along,” he suggested.
Burnham was about to comply when Hayden held up a protesting hand.
“Go easy, Palmer, or you will have another attack,” he cautioned.
Palmer grinned sheepishly at Maynard. “Take my advice,” he said. “Don’t
invite your physician to share your apartment if you want to enjoy
life. Hayden finds fault every time I forget I am on the water-wagon.”
“Some people have peculiar ideas regarding their welfare,” retorted
Hayden. “Your heart won’t stand many more attacks; so go easy.”
Observing Palmer’s obstinate expression, he added, “Move the decanter
out of Palmer’s way, Maynard, there’s a good fellow.”
As Maynard complied with the request his casual glance at Palmer was
arrested by the haggard lines in his face and the puffiness under his
eyes; he looked what he evidently was, an ill man.
“Pooh!” Palmer exclaimed airily. “Sleep will set me right. I believe
the people in the apartment above are to move out; once rid of their
infernal parties I’ll be able to work on my plans. An architect needs
peace and quiet as well as powerful lights. This house is a sounding
board.”
“Is it an old building?” asked Maynard.
“No, not very, built about ten years ago.”
“The rooms are very commodious,” commented Maynard, looking around the
room, which was arranged with much artistic taste.
“Glad you like it,” exclaimed Palmer, much gratified. “I was the
architect. By the way, Burnham, who do you suppose leased one of the
smaller apartments this summer? Marian Van Ness.”
“So she told me,” returned Burnham shortly. Maynard, who had glanced
up at mention of Marian’s name, helped himself thoughtfully to some
Newburg.
“Any apartments vacant, Palmer?” he inquired. The architect nodded
affirmatively. “Then I might rent one, as I plan to remain in
Washington until December at least.”
“Surely you will stay with us?” Burnham looked hurt. “We want you to
stay with us, Maynard.”
“Are you sure I won’t be imposing on your hospitality?” asked Maynard.
“I feel perhaps you and Mrs. Burnham would rather not be bothered with
a guest just at this time.”
“Nonsense; we don’t want to be alone.” Burnham spoke with great
vehemence and his three companions looked at him in surprise. With an
effort he strove to gain control over his emotion. “That--that man’s
death is getting on our nerves,” he admitted, and the hand holding
his wine glass shook. “Neither my wife nor I feel the same since the
tragedy; it’s so--so devilish mysterious.”
“The police will soon clear it up,” said Hayden cheerily. “Give them
time, Burnham.”
“I would, if I had any faith in their methods,” Burnham rejoined. “What
have they done to date? Nothing.”
“Apparently not a thing,” amended Maynard. “The police don’t tell
everything they know, Burnham; they may have unearthed a whole lot
which will come out at the inquest.”
“Then I wish they would hold the trial,” Burnham tossed down his
napkin. “There is no reason in such secrecy; let them arrest the
murderer at once.”
“Before they can do that they must establish the identity of the dead
man.” Maynard waited until Siki had removed his plate, then continued,
“that is the logical end to work from in solving the riddle.”
Dr. Hayden nodded his agreement. “The police are working along those
lines,” he said. “To date they have made but negative progress, and
yet----” He paused until Siki departed with the empty chafing dish.
“What were you going to say?” demanded Burnham.
“Only that I stopped to see Coroner Penfield this afternoon and found
him working in his laboratory; he was making a test of the dead man’s
hair. You noticed perhaps,” he broke off to ask Maynard who was sitting
forward in his chair, “that the man’s hair was very closely cropped?”
“Yes,” he responded. “It was so short that it made his head look bullet
shaped.”
“The coroner is nettled because this case has baffled him, so he set
his wits to work,” continued Hayden. “He pulled out some of the short
hair from the man’s head with tweezers and steeped the hair in diluted
nitric acid.”
“With what result?” Burnham almost jerked out the question.
“By tests with hydrochloric acid, Penfield found that the hair had been
dyed with nitrate of silver,” answered Hayden. “And I found the same
result upon microscopic examination of a few hairs.”
“Well, what if you did find nitrate of silver?” Burnham demanded
roughly. “How does that advance the inquiry?”
“It established the fact that the man had dyed his hair,” explained the
physician. “The inference being he did so for purposes of disguise.”
Palmer, who had been an attentive listener to all that was said,
laughed heartily. “Oh, come, Hayden,” he exclaimed. “That’s a broad
statement. I know a number of men, respectable citizens of Washington,
who dye their hair for no other reason than to look younger.”
“Your friends have not been found dead under mysterious circumstances,”
said Hayden dryly. “In the case in point we must consider the ulterior
motive; therefore this unidentified dead man can be said to have dyed
his hair from a motive of disguise until it is proven otherwise.”
“I’ll admit it’s a nice point,” conceded Palmer, twisting about in his
chair. “Could you tell from the examination, the original color of the
man’s hair?”
“Oh, bother!” broke in Burnham. “Who cares about the color of his
hair--how did his dead body get in my house?”
“Walked there,” answered Maynard, a twinkle in his eyes belying his
serious expression. “The man couldn’t have been dead when he entered
your house.”
“He couldn’t, eh? Well, will you tell me where he died in my house?”
Burnham’s manner waxed truculent. “I have searched every room with
Palmer and Detective Mitchell and we found no trace of any one, let
alone two persons, having been there drinking--what was it? Oh, yes,
cherry brandy.”
“Every room was in order,” added Palmer. “No sign of confusion.
Frankly, I agree with Burnham, the man must have been taken to his
house, dead.”
Maynard stared at the speaker. “Do you mean to tell me seriously that
you two men believe a dead body was carried into Burnham’s house in
broad daylight between the hours of three and five in the afternoon
without any one seeing it done?”
“I do,” announced Burnham firmly. “As to the hours, don’t place too
much reliance on Evelyn’s statement regarding the time she found the
body; Evelyn is very heedless and a few hours miscalculation in time
wouldn’t disturb her.”
A subtle change in Burnham’s tone as he mentioned Evelyn’s name caught
Maynard’s attention and looking up quickly he saw Palmer was watching
Burnham, a curious glint in his eye which Maynard found difficult to
fathom.
“Evelyn told me that she had her watch examined and that it keeps
excellent time,” stated Hayden. “Of course we are all liable to make
mistakes in the hour; but in this instance Evelyn is unshaken in her
belief that she found the body in the library at about four o’clock,
and that it was not there when she was in the room at half past two.”
“There would be no object in Evelyn lying as to the time,” exclaimed
Palmer, and his heavy frown indicated his temper was rising. “I hardly
think, Burnham, you can impugn her testimony.”
“Don’t be a fool!” retorted Burnham hotly. “The girl is proverbially
careless; carelessness is at the bottom of the confusion in time.”
Only Hayden’s strong hand kept Palmer in his seat. “Don’t excite
yourself, Burnham,” he advised sternly, “and tell us quietly just what
your theory is regarding the murder. As for you, Palmer, shut up!” His
half-bantering tone conveyed a deeper meaning and Palmer, observing
Burnham’s flushed countenance, held back his angry answer.
“My theory,” repeated Burnham thoughtfully, as he passed a damp
handkerchief across his face. “The man was taken to my house dead and
the murderer made his escape before Evelyn came up from the kitchen.”
“Just a moment.” Hayden leaned forward. “Why did the murderer ring the
library bell to summon Evelyn?”
“How do I know?” Burnham’s excitement was mounting the more he talked.
“Probably he did it in a moment of--of mental aberration.”
Hayden chuckled. “Well, putting that point aside for a moment,” he
said, “there is the question of getting the body through the streets
and up your steps unseen in broad daylight by any passers-by.”
“Confound it!” Burnham banged the table with his clenched fist until
the glasses rattled. “Why do you keep harping on daylight? The coroner
claims that the man died between two and three Tuesday morning; the
murderer had ample time _before_ daylight to take the body to my
house----”
“But Evelyn did not find the body until Tuesday afternoon,” interrupted
Palmer heatedly.
“She did not find the body in the library until Tuesday afternoon,”
retorted Burnham. “But I am willing to bet any amount that had Evelyn
looked through the entire house she would have found it concealed
somewhere on the premises.”
In the silence that ensued Burnham glanced triumphantly at his
companions, but their expression disappointed him; his theory had not
created the sensation he had expected.
“Of course the body was in the house,” answered Hayden. “It had to be
there that length of time, for the man was dead hours before Evelyn
found him. Why the body was moved into the library, why the murderer
returned to the scene of his crime, and why he rang the library bell
are problems yet to be solved.”
“There is a point you are all overlooking,” broke in Palmer. “Where did
the murderer get the keys to your house? There is no evidence to show
he broke into the house, therefore he must have used a key.”
Burnham did not reply at once. “There are dishonest locksmiths, I
suppose, as well as crooks in other trades,” he said finally. “The lock
on the front door is old fashioned, and the same key opens the outer
vestibule door also.”
“Not a very secure arrangement,” remarked Maynard. “Then you think keys
were made to fit the doors in your absence this summer?”
“Yes. It would be an easy matter for a man to get a wax impression
of the lock at night without attracting attention. The few people on
our block who are home are at work all day and at the club at night;
that is why,” added Burnham obstinately, “the dead man could have been
brought at any hour to the house unknown to any one.”
“You mean brought in a cab?” inquired Maynard.
“Of course. A dead man couldn’t be carried through the streets without
being seen by some one,” replied Burnham. “Have a little sense!”
Maynard paid no attention to his companion’s irritability.
“So you think the dead man was carried to your house in a cab,” he
mused. “If that was the case it simplifies the search.”
“How so?” The question came from Palmer and Maynard turned slightly to
face him.
“It should be a comparatively easy matter to trace the cab driver,” he
said.
“An excellent idea,” agreed Hayden. “Provided, of course, that
Burnham’s theory is correct--that the man was first murdered and then
carried into his house. Frankly, as a medical man I don’t agree with
Burnham’s reasoning; a dead body is a very unwieldy object to move
around and would most certainly attract attention.”
“The man was only of medium height and thin,” protested Burnham, and
then added in haste which Maynard was quick to note, “that is, judging
from the glimpse I had of the body on the billiard table. Palmer,” as
the latter rose, “hand me a cigar from the box on the mantel, thanks,”
and he borrowed Maynard’s cigarette to light the fresh cigar.
The silence continued as Palmer, his big form moving quietly down the
room, reached one of the front windows and opened it wide. For a short
time he stood contemplating the opposite houses, dimly seen in the
murky atmosphere, and filled his lungs with the damp air. Hearing his
name he faced about.
“Have you disappeared for good, Palmer?” called Burnham. “We must be
getting along. I----”
Whatever Burnham intended to say remained unuttered as a stinging
sensation caused him to clap his hand to his face. When he removed it
his palm showed blood from a graze on his cheek.
“Shot, by God!” he exclaimed, gazing dazedly at his companions.
Palmer moved swiftly from the window and peered over Hayden’s shoulder
at a hole in the plaster--the bullet had mushroomed out. Maynard tapped
the wall. “Brick,” he said tersely, and his face shone white in the
rays of the electric lamp which Palmer held aloft to better inspect the
bullet. “I heard no sound.”
“None of us did,” responded Burnham hoarsely. “Whoever fired the shot
used a Maxim silencer.”
Hayden moistened his finger and touched the hot metal. “Fortunate you
moved your head when you did, Burnham,” he commented dryly. “Where did
the shot come from?”
A sudden stronger puff of air rattled the newspapers lying near the
open window and the men turned in that direction.
“Jove! the window!” Palmer sped in that direction. “I saw no one on the
balcony when I looked out a few minutes ago; then you called, Burnham.”
Maynard, who had hurried with him to the window, leaned far out, and
looked up and down the balcony which ran across the front of the
apartment.
“Who owns the next apartment?” he demanded, observing that another
window opened upon the balcony. “There, where the window is.”
“That’s our hall window,” explained Palmer. Turning on his heel he
hurried into the reception hall with such speed that he collided
violently with his Japanese servant. “Siki, what are you doing here?”
he demanded.
“I come to answer the door, most honorable sir,” responded the servant
and glancing ahead Palmer saw the front door to his apartment was ajar
and that a shadowy form stood in the corridor just outside the entrance.
“What do you want?” he asked, pushing Siki to one side and switching on
an additional light; by its aid he saw that the man in the corridor was
a French officer.
“I come to inquire the way to the apartment of Madame Van Ness,” the
Frenchman stated, observing with well-bred surprise Palmer’s agitated
appearance.
“Right upstairs, next floor,” the latter snapped, and shutting the door
he was in time to catch Burnham as he staggered to a seat in nervous
collapse.
“It’s that damned Frenchman----” Burnham could hardly articulate, and
Hayden hastened to his aid. “He tried to kill me.”
“He--who?” demanded Maynard who had lingered behind at the window to
look up and down the street before joining them. “Who tried to kill
you?”
“René La Montagne!” gasped Burnham and slipped back insensible.